The Ashen Levels

by C F Welburn

  “We’ve heard your offer, and we have rejected it. Now, let me propose ours.” Hompa growled but allowed him to continue. “I will send forth an emissary. One who claims to know you. He has valuable information that may alter the fate of your race. Will you accept these terms?” Hompa scratched his head, puzzled.

  “Who is this man?” Balagir stepped forth.

  “We meet again, Hompa.” The horlock squinted up, and then slowly released a deep, unsettling laugh.

  “Ahh. The ashen. I wondered when you might rear your head again. Quite the ambitious one. I knew that from the start.”

  “I’m not the only one with ambitions,” Balagir replied, gazing out across the red blanket.

  “Ha. True. Then I would harken your words, though I doubt it will change my mind.”

  “I ask only that you hear me.”

  “Then descend and make haste. This field is starting to buzz with flies.”

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” the captain said uncertainly.

  “So do I,” Balagir answered quietly and descended the ladder. When he stood before the gate, he turned. Freya had her hand on his shoulder.

  “Don’t do this, Balagir. It’s not your fight.” Her uncharacteristic sentiment surprised him.

  “It will be one day. And when that day comes, the ashen will not be able to stand alone.”

  “Then I’ll come with you,” she said.

  “I don’t think so. They need you here.”

  “Trapped behind a wall? Might as well seal me in a tomb.” He was about to argue when Jerikin—or to all those present, Hork—stepped forward.

  “I will go too, as an ambassador for House Eskareth.” Yorvic blinked.

  “Are you mad?” But the lych did not reply.

  “If you’re going, then so am I,” said Unvil, a crazed look in his eye. “I’ll not be left behind this time.”

  “Count me in,” Roje said. Yorvic grasped his head in despair.

  “So, all the ashen will go now? And if they kill you, what then? We will be even weaker without you.”

  “He’s right,” Balagir said. “They need as many of you here as possible. I doubt my plan will work, but I should be allowed to re-enter. I go only to negotiate.”

  He looked at the remaining ashen. Ginike was busy caring for Kiela, who had her head in his lap but was following proceedings with her eyes. Dane looked away, shame-faced at not having offered his service. The green-hatted man was more terrified than the humans, and for once looked humiliated. “Watch from the battlements if you will. I’ll do my best to convince them. If I fail, be prepared to let me back in. And be ready to fight.” He looked them over one last time, and to his utter amazement, Freya grasped his hand. Of all the shocks and surprises of the day, that was among the greatest of them. War could make people do atypical things, he concluded. He looked once more over the faces of his companions, nodded to Yorvic, and approached the small side door. With a breath he stooped and stepped through.

  Balagir felt very small as he crossed the field. At his back loomed the keep, studded with watching eyes; ahead stood the imposing Hompa with a grunting army of pent and itching violence at his back. That short walk lasted an age, and with each step he rued his decision more. When the granfeder’s shadow fell across the floor, he looked up, the huge bulk mercifully blocking the low morning sun from his eyes.

  “Well, look at you,” Hompa said, amused. “You’ve come a long way.”

  “I might say the same,” Balagir replied. “I see you did not waste the opportunity.”

  “Nor you yours. Though I’d never admit it openly, ashen, we’re similar, you and I.” Balagir shook his head.

  “I may be ambitious, but I’d never incite a war.”

  “A war? I merely right old wrongs. Have you forgotten how we were driven from the south? Ha! What am I asking an ashen for? But let me tell you a thing; great injustice was done to my forebears. Long have we waited to punish our banishers. Long have we lived neath the shadow of shame. And in no small way, we have you to thank for that.”

  “I helped you take back your clan. I never intended to hand you the south.” Hompa waved his hand.

  “Matters not. I’d not be here without you. Maybe your little friends back there would be interested to know such a thing?”

  “We had an oath, that was it.”

  “Ah yes. An oath. Well, you’ve your agendas, and I’ve mine. I think by now we are even, don’t you? Now, I’ve granted this boon seeing as we go back aways, speak up and to the point.”

  “Very well. I come with a warning.” Hompa smirked but did not interrupt. “Right now you’re walking into a trap.” Hompa waved at the wide field and rolling vales.

  “We’re not the ones surrounded.”

  “Yet you will be once Zyrath arrives.”

  “Zyrath? What’s that scale-belly got to do with anything?”

  “They’re on their way. The largatyn. We’ve all been deceived.” Hompa frowned, and Balagir proceeded. “The men here were set against each other, a conspiracy by the askaba. They are working with the largatyn to some end, of which I still don’t rightly understand. But I’ve seen this day foretold. I have seen the destruction of man and horlock alike, and the victory of the largatyn who will crush you between two armies.” For a moment Hompa was still. Then he began to laugh a deep, unnerving laugh that must have reached even those upon the ramparts.

  “We come of our own accord. No askaba has manipulated us. We arrived unlooked for.”

  “And yet I knew you were coming. It was for that very reason I rode to Eskareth to warn them.”

  “Impossible.”

  “I can prove it. I have with me a Gazer’s eye. If you will look upon it for a moment—” Hompa raised his hand.

  “A Gazer’s eye? This sounds like more askaba magic to me. No. I’ll trust my own eyes. I’ll not let trickery guide me. We have planned this for years. We have grown strong and marched south. It was our decision and ours alone. We are not about to turn back now because of one ashen’s scaremongering.”

  “You came south, as you knew men were divided. You knew it was an opportune time to strike. But who was circulating these rumours in the north? Who has been moving the pieces into place?”

  “We move of our own accord, not at the whim of these filthy lizards or askaba or on whomsoever you wish to pour the blame next.”

  “You’re right. The largatyn are just another piece in this game that we still do not understand.”

  “And where do the ashen fall in this ‘game’? You point fingers, but what of the smoke-eaters? I’ve never met a race as opportunist and greedy. Yet here, where the stakes seem the highest, they are curiously absent from proceedings. Just why are you here, Balagir? Why have you stuck you neck out? What gain have you perceived?” Balagir hesitated. He had no answer for this. He didn’t know his own part in it, or that of the ashen. Only that they were linked to the askaba in mysterious ways.

  “I don’t know,” he said, and Hompa began to laugh his big, dreadful laugh once more.

  “Then I suggest you get your own affairs in order before interfering with the fates of others. I thought you strong and ambitious, now I just see a lost and confused man. Drifting with the rest of your kind; slaves to some strange fire ghost.”

  “I’ve come to offer you a chance.”

  Hompa shifted impatiently. “And now I offer you one. We are square, ashen. You may return to the men behind that wall, or you may take off across those vales; cut all your ties as you are wont to do. Either way, I will not stop you. But if we meet again, I cannot promise leniency. We’ve burned our bridges, you and I.” Balagir nodded heavily. The granfeder would not be swayed. Not with an army at his back. Not by a man who, in his own words, was lost and confused. In some respects, he could not argue with that.

  “So be it.” He sighed. “I hope, Hompa, that the largatyn give you a chance to talk, and that you warn them of the askaba’s betrayal. For you will see that I have s
poken the truth.” Hompa grunted.

  “Be off, ashen. I have no more to say.” Balagir nodded once and turned on his heel.

  He could feel the disappointment in the faces on the ramparts even with his head bowed. He had failed, and along with that, so had their hopes. Suddenly his wound ached, and his feet felt leaden as he trudged towards his final bastion.

  He had made it halfway when a commotion broke out behind him. He was torn between looking back, or simply running, for it boded no good. He chose the former, and instantly regretted it.

  Several horlocks had separated from the horde, rushing past Hompa, who stared after them, barking unheeded orders. Balagir backed away, turning to flee, but it was too late. A huge fist struck him between the shoulder blades, and the ground rose up with a blood-tasting bang.

  A low scraping noise faded in and out. He was being dragged back across the plain. His escort cared little for his comfort, and he felt rocks, discarded weapons, and the occasional dead Ozgarian beneath him. Twisting his head, he saw it was one of the warlords, slightly leaner than Hompa but larger than a regular horlock. His red muscles bunched as he hauled Balagir as if he were a sack of grain, discarding him in a bloody heap. This had not been part of the deal. Blinking the dust from his eyes, he sought out Hompa, but the granfeder was nowhere in sight. He was about to voice his objections when the crowd parted, and from its red midst a small cage was wheeled. His first thought was that it was for him, but then he noticed it already had an inhabitant.

  “SSSs him!” the creature inside hissed. Balagir remembered that voice. He squinted at the dark shape inside. Nifla was not the jaegir he had once been. He was crammed in, twisted, stunted. He had bits missing, and an array of burns and scars mosaicked his charcoal skin. The few quills he had had intact were now snapped, and one of his eyes was crusted over.

  “You sure?” barked the warlord. Nifla flinched but nodded furiously.

  “Yessss. Positive.” The warlord turned on him.

  “I believe you know our pet. Friends once, huh?”

  “I knew him, yes. But ashen like Nifla don’t have friends.”

  “Ssssss Nifla,” Nifla said, as though he had forgotten his name.

  “Silence!”

  The jaegir whimpered and curled into a ball. The warlord was suddenly interrupted by another horlock so ugly, his lower teeth were a danger to his eyeballs. He roared orders in a tongue Balagir could not decipher. Several of the larger horlocks took off to the south then, and Hompa’s sudden absence made sense.

  “I can explain,” Balagir began, though he really couldn’t. It mattered not anyway. Horlocks, it seemed, were not accustomed to trials, and already his fate was being prepared.

  “Speak again, ashen, and I’ll have your tongue for a pendant.” Balagir instantly fell silent. He was rather attached to his tongue and knew words would not save him.

  “Your guilt is proven by our pet’s allegations and by Hompa’s flight. You are the one responsible for the murder of Granfeder Hogot. Yes, I recall another shape now that day in the canyon. You have eluded justice for too long, and your companion here has borne the brunt for both.” He turned and nodded. Balagir was seized beneath his arms and half dragged, half carried towards one of the abandoned siege towers. He was shoved roughly through the upper hatch, which was promptly nailed down, imprisoning him. Then it was wheeled out into the centre of the field beneath the gaze of all those who stood upon the walls.

  The warlord stood forward.

  “Hark, men of Eskareth. I am Granfeder Gorn. You will answer to me now. This ashen, your emissary, has committed great crimes against us. He will burn now, and you will watch. Then when the smoke has gone, we will come for you. Enough words have been wasted today; no one will go free.”

  He turned and gave the signal. Soon Balagir smelt the first wafts of smoke rising up to meet him.

  “Gorn,” he called. “I’m worth more alive than dead. You will be betrayed by the largatyn. That is why I came out. To warn you.” But Gorn showed no interest.

  Balagir tested the hatch, but it would not budge. He lay on his back and kicked it with his feet, straining, grunting, but it was fast. He employed his boots and strength-band as he had in Iceval, but to no avail. He was too cramped to jump without snapping his neck, and the tower was built for war after all and no flimsy thing. Even the stone-fist could do little more than scuff the tempered wood.

  The first wisps of smoke twisted up through the wooden levels of the tower, and he covered his nose and mouth with his cloak. Era emerged from his bag, darting this way and that, but even she could find no solution. She passed in and out of the gaps, but the tower had been nailed tight. He coughed and pushed his face to a chink, sucking in fresh air. He could see the walls from here; the people above shouting and waving their fists might as well have been a league away for all the help they could offer.

  He shifted his weight as the floor grew hot and began to burn his knees. Of all the deaths he might have encountered, burning would have been far down the list; though he could not deny a certain irony in it. Flames had driven him, and now they would consume him. A neat little circle in many respects.

  He kicked once more. Nothing. He wedged his sword between the wood and twisted the hilt but could make no leverage. Sparks rose up the outside of the tower as the entire base burned and billowed in the breeze. Ashen to ashes. This was the way it would be.

  The floor smouldered now, and his cloak smoked where it touched. He pressed his face to the gaps, taking in the air in small, panicked gasps.

  As he did so, something caught his eye. Something falling from the battlements. A man? Someone had jumped? But his eyes were watering. He wiped them with blackened hands and squinted out once more.

  One of the large horlocks that had been nearer to the wall taunting and inciting fear into the defenders was striding back towards the main horde. He paused near a group, drew his blade, and plunged it into his own heart. Balagir blinked, thinking his eyes deceived, or that it was part of some battle ritual set to unnerve. Then another large horlock who stood beside him did likewise; drew his blade and buried it deep in his own chest. No sooner had he slumped to his knees than the next one did the same. It soon became apparent that it was no ritual, for the rest were backing away in alarm. But they could not escape it. First one, then another repeated the process, stabbing their hearts, slashing their throats and, when they were close enough, attacking others, taking down two or three before being slain.

  It did not take long for those about the tower to become aware, including Gorn, who growled and stomped towards the disturbance. A particularly large warlord had taken down no fewer than eight of his startled companions before being slain, but this only sparked a fresh outbreak with another setting on the confused ranks of their former allies. Another warlord erupted in a frenzy, slaying a dozen with a brutal mace before he was finally taken down, to be replaced by another that plunged his knife into the backs and bellies of his unsuspecting brethren.

  Granfeder Gorn, whose short reign had gotten off to a disastrous start, locked blades with the latest affected, spun, and severed his horned head, only to roar at the sky and begin himself to split and sunder his subjects, taking down perhaps a dozen before he was slain. Leaderless now, and unnerved, the horlocks began retreating, skirmishes breaking out at random amongst the ranks, sparking up and being snuffed out, only to send another horned creature berserk. The last of the large warlords finished another crazed kin’s spree to become the next, turning friend to foe and pulverising them with a thigh-sized cudgel. Grunts and cries spread out in the bestial tongue, but the gist was that they were cursed. Maybe the ashen, perhaps the askaba. It no longer mattered; they spread and scattered to the vales, wary of getting too close to one another. Those that remained to fight brought down whoever their adversary was, to begin again a fresh unlooked-for onslaught.

  Balagir watched, coughing and dizzy. The tower creaked and sagged to one side, but his cloak had caught flame now,
and he thrashed and stamped it beneath his boot. In the distance a horn went up, and he saw the great gate open. Horses emerged at full tilt, banners of yellow and blue, and those ashen that pertained to neither house all came charging forth.

  The tower groaned and leaned, and he threw himself against the wall so that it bent further and then crumbled, smashing down to the ground, fracturing his cell as well as his shoulder. He winced, writhed, and kicked free of the burning prison, crawling across the embers, smothering the flames from his cloak until he lay free among the twisted red corpses strewn unto the horizon.

  Then the people were with him. Someone offered him water, which he gulped and splashed in his face. He dragged himself up and looked around. Roje and Freya stood over him. Dane was there somewhere, and Unvil. Maybe Raf Isil, but he couldn’t be sure. The Eskarathian cavalry lead by Yorvic chased the straggling horlocks off into the vales, putting arrows between their shoulders until none remained in sight. Balagir looked at his burned hands, crisp and raw. His season-cloak was all but in tatters, and his boots were so black the talismans were no longer visible. He retrieved Greydent, half buried beneath the smoking ruin of the tower. Roje was regarding him, shaking his big lion head.

  “I’d trade all I have for whatever talisman of luck you must possess. Now, would someone mind explaining what just happened?” But once more they were interrupted. Just beyond the cage, the final horlock struggled weakly to his knees. He was not injured but seemed overcome with fatigue. He knelt there, panting, slowly focussing on the ashen.

  Of all the moments, Dane chose this one to shine, to prove once and for all he was no coward. The fact that the horlock was exhausted and on its knees likely lent him some courage, and he drew his blade, shrieked some long pent battle cry, and rushed towards the final foe, intent on redeeming himself in the eyes of Unvil and those that mocked him.

  “Dane!” Balagir cried over a fresh rack of coughs. But it was too late. He had finally found his pluck, and nobody was about to steal this moment of glory. The horlock barely had the strength to raise his hands before the small ashen ran him through. The red creature sagged to the ground, and Dane too crumpled beneath a sudden bout of tremendous exhaustion.